


Refreshment

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Sex, M/M, Murder, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Kink, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-13 23:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17497613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "It wasn't hard for Battler to hold to his identity under the Sisters' onslaught, once the agony of physical harm became something more ordinary than the absence of it. It’s Ronove’s gentleness, Battler thinks, that is so much more terrifying." Ronove takes his turn amusing his master's guest and Battler finds himself undone.





	Refreshment

Ronove is gentler than Battler had expected him to be.

Battler has gained more than enough hands-on experience of the witch’s furniture by now. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, doesn’t know how many times he’s been crushed to death or ripped apart or torn from existence in one of a thousand thousand ways; but he knows it’s been a while, long enough that the specter of death holds no real fear for him now. There is always a wave of butterflies, always a flash of gold to illuminate the stilled working of his mind, and then he’s gasping into a miracle made mundane by repetition, and it begins again.

The Sisters he has grown accustomed to. They are brutal, to be sure, sharp edges figurative and literal both, depending on the form they take, and Battler long since lost count of how many limbs they tore free from him, long since stopped tracking how many times he’s felt the force of one of those damn stakes running through his belly, or arm, or chest, or forehead. But they lack inventiveness, lack the ability to think of much of anything beyond the simple satisfaction violence brings them, and there’s something straightforward about that, something almost comforting to the clarity of such obvious malice. It wasn’t hard for Battler to hold to his identity under their onslaught, once the agony of physical harm became something more ordinary than the absence of it; he can even muster something like teasing, to taunt them into killing him faster than they mean to, or into something that would feel almost like a game, if there weren’t such pain in it for him.

It’s Ronove’s gentleness, Battler thinks, that is so much more terrifying.

“Battler-sama,” Ronove says, speaking in that gentle purr that runs down the whole of Battler’s spine as if the other’s voice is fitting into the core of his vertebrae, as if the gloved hands at his bare hips are threading sensation through his bones and blood instead of simply bracing him still against the demon’s forward motion thrusting into him. “You are enjoying yourself, I hope?”

Battler coughs a laugh, not sure how much of it he means. “Sure,” he says, as blithely as he can manage. “This is a lot better than anything those hot Sisters let me do, at least.”

Ronove’s laugh curls itself into Battler’s belly, deep into the soft of his stomach and fitting itself to the strain of his balls. “They are young yet,” he says, as if commiserating with them and apologizing to Battler at one and the same time, like he’s making an excuse for a puppy that has soiled an expensive carpet. “They do not yet understand the importance of ensuring a guest’s satisfaction while he is with us.”

Battler attempts a shrug. “How much experience do they get?” he says, still aiming for that light tone in spite of the sweat slick over his shoulders and the heat knotting in his throat. “I’m the best they have to practice on right now, aren’t I?”

“Mm,” Ronove hums in the depths of his throat. “That is true.” He shifts behind Battler, rocking forward over his knees to thrust deep into the other before him, and Battler has to shut his eyes and let his mouth fall open to ease his throat of the strain that would turn his exhale into a dragging moan otherwise. “Which is why I offered to take a turn.”

“This is definitely better so far,” Battler manages. Ronove keeps moving behind him, rocking himself through long, slow strokes to sink himself into the give of Battler’s body; it’s hard to think with the heat of that friction urging into him but Battler keeps struggling for it, straining for some measure of coherency even as his fingers tighten against the floor beneath him and his thighs shake with the desire to rock back to meet Ronove’s forward motion. Battler catches a breath into his lungs and attempts a laugh that falls only a little weaker than he means it to. “But you’re a demon, aren’t you? It’s not like you’ll be satisfied with a little fucking. You’ve got some nasty trick you’re going to surprise me with, don’t you?”

“Don’t mistake my nature for hers,” Ronove says. He doesn’t sound angry; if anything there’s something like amusement under his words and in the grip of his gloved hands settling the closer to Battler’s hips. His rhythm hasn’t shifted, hasn’t eased at all; Battler can feel each forward motion of Ronove thrusting into him spark up his spine with distracting heat. “I am indeed a demon. Our goal is not to cause pain and suffering. We offer bargains with those we contract with, not overwhelming power to crush their spirit.”

“You could, though,” Battler says. It helps to talk, a little; the struggle to hold onto words keeps his attention on something other than the ache in his balls and the flex of his heat-heavy cock bobbing between his thighs with each motion Ronove takes into him. “You have the power to destroy me right here, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Ronove says. “But that lacks artistry. You have seen with the Sisters, have you not? There is something base about simple cruelty without the complexity of other flavors beneath it, like gorging on a surfeit of chocolate without ever considering a sip of tea to cleanse the palate. One is left full but ill-content.” One of his hands slides up from Battler’s hip, trailing over the curve of the other’s waist as gloved fingertips skim towards the bottom edge of the other’s ribs. “Experience has given me taste for a more complex fare.”

Battler cranes his neck to look back over his shoulder, as best he can. It’s hard to see Ronove, given his position directly behind Battler’s hips, but from what he can make out the other is dressed exactly as he was when they began, from the crisp white of his shirt to the rich embroidery marking out the pattern on his jacket. Battler can’t see his pants, but he can feel the smooth texture of them press to the backs of his thighs with every forward motion Ronove takes; he’s sure they are as pristine as can be managed while leaving the other’s length free to work into Battler kneeling naked on the floor before him. Even the juxtaposition of Ronove’s elegant appearance and Battler’s own relative vulnerability is unsettling; the Sisters rarely bother to strip off any part of his clothing, and they never look at him as a man, however much he teases them with the same. The fact of Ronove’s eyes dark against the bare skin of his back as much as the friction of the cock working up and into his body makes Battler aware of his own physicality in a way that all the damage the Sisters have done to him never achieved.

He has to fight for speech to offer a response, and when he does manage it his voice is trembling more than he could wish for. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re still just going to kill me, right? Pain is still pain, there’s nothing special about suffering anymore.”

Ronove inclines his head. “I am indeed going to kill you,” he says, without any particular apology or inflection on the words. “I never said there would be suffering involved.” He tightens his hold on Battler’s hip, steadying himself before he rocks forward to thrust deeper than he has gone before; for a moment Battler is left breathless, tensing through a shudder of sensation urged from him by the movement of Ronove’s cock within him. His mouth comes open, his body tightens around Ronove’s, and into the heat-distraction of his vision Ronove purrs a laugh that slides down the whole length of Battler’s spine.

“I rather think you’ll enjoy it,” he says; and then he moves again, breaking rhythm to thrust into Battler with force enough to chase aside whatever protest or disbelief the other might mean to offer. Battler’s eyes go wide, his breath spilling from him without any intention on his part at all, and behind him Ronove moves again, sliding forward into a thrust with none of the deliberate calm he was showing before. This is immediate, sharp, sudden force that bursts onto Battler without any time for him to so much as catch a breath to recollect his composure between Ronove’s strokes; between his angled-open knees his cock is jumping, twitching towards his stomach with each thrust Ronove takes. There had been some pleasure, before, a deep ache of heat in the depths of Battler’s belly with the deepest press of Ronove into him; but it’s every stroke, now, every thrust of the other’s body penetrating him comes with a jolt of sensation that arches Battler’s back and strains in the line of his shoulders. There’s heat inside him, the pressure of Ronove’s length but more, now, friction expanding without time to fade and spreading out to radiate through the whole of Battler’s body, and all Battler can think to do is stare at the floor beneath him and pant through what desperate inhales he can force from around the pace of Ronove fucking into him.

“Is this so terrible, Battler-sama?” Ronove’s voice hasn’t changed with the increase of his speed; it’s still that same low resonance, that same deep-buried amusement pulling taut at the ends of his words to make the honorific nearly a mockery. “I could send you back to the Sisters, if this is less to your liking.”

Battler has to struggle for words, has to fight for even a shred of coherency with that unflinching rhythm of Ronove working into him to dominate his sense, to speed beyond even the pounding beat of his heart in his chest. “I don’t--” he starts, and Ronove comes forward into him and Battler’s body tightens around the pressure, flexing on sudden, startled heat as his eyes go wide, as his head angles back. “ _Nngh_. I don’t think...this is all you have.”

“What’s that?” Ronove is audibly amused, now, he’s not even trying to hold back the rumble of laughter in his voice. “You want more than this, Battler-sama?” His hand at Battler’s side comes up to stroke against the length of the other’s spine; Battler can feel the texture of Ronove’s gloves drawing over the pattern of his vertebrae. “I thought I would restrain myself to a more human seeming, at least this first time.” His hand spreads wide, his fingers fanning out into an arc at the base of Battler’s spine. “I would hate to frighten our guest away from a repeat performance.”

Battler sets his jaw and swallows hard. He’s sure Ronove can feel the tension in him, is certain his façade of ease is no more than that; but there’s a reckless pleasure to that, too, to having his teasing met in kind instead of ignored as the Sisters are made to do. So he pushes onward, baring his teeth into a grin and tipping his head to look back over his shoulder at Ronove behind him again.

“Don’t underestimate human resilience,” Battler says, grinning to give Ronove his best smile. “I’ve taken the worst those hot Sisters have to offer all together, I think I can handle one single demon.” He tips his head down to cast his gaze through his lashes and huffs a breath that he is aiming towards teasing, even if it comes out far too strained to hold up the illusion. “Why don’t you give me what you’ve got and we’ll see how I do?”

Ronove’s laugh starts all the way down in the depths of his chest, purring against the span of his tidy uniform and rising up his throat to spill from his lips in a rippling tumble of sound. His eyes crinkle, his expression tightening on the force of his amusement; for a moment he looks almost human in the simple joy of his pleasure. Even the rhythm of his movement gives way, easing to stillness as he laughs, and even as he collects himself the curve of a sincere smile lingers on his lips.

“You never fail to exceed my expectations,” Ronove tells Battler, and lifts a gloved hand to touch against his hair with something nearly affection. “And of course you are a guest. It is my duty as a butler to satisfy whatever request you may make of me.” His fingers curl in against Battler’s hair, forming to a fist that tugs against the back of the other’s scalp, and when he leans forward it’s to couple force with the pull, to offer the inexorable persuasion of his body against the back of Battler’s skull. Battler folds forward, the strength of his arms melting like water to the casual force of Ronove’s grip on his head, and Ronove keeps going, leaning forward until Battler’s cheek is pressed flat to the floor and the other’s shoulders are sloping down in a steep angle from the cant of his hips. Battler takes a breath against the cool beneath him, feels the surface clouding with the humidity of his inhale, and a shadow falls over him, the shape of Ronove leaning in to murmur words just against the curve of his ear.

“Let us see how long your human resilience holds out, Battler-sama.”

Ronove begins to move again, his hips drawing back to work through long, full strokes while he yet leans over Battler’s back. It should be impossible with a human anatomy; but Battler has greater concerns than the relative flexibility of Ronove’s present seeming pinning against his back and sweat-slick shoulders. There’s something changing inside him, pressure and force altering with each stroke Ronove takes; for a moment Battler thinks he’s tightening, that his body is clenching closer around the other’s length. It’s only when Ronove thrusts forward with an exhale closer to a groan than anything he has offered so far, only when Battler feels the strain inside him sinking farther than it yet has, that he realizes that it’s Ronove who’s changing rather than himself.

“Oh,” Battler blurts, surprise breaking free from his throat to spill itself against the resistance of the floor under him; and “ _Ah_ ,” as Ronove’s forward motion drives the other’s length deep into Battler’s body. Battler’s spine curves, his shoulders work on the sharp pressure of reflex as his body tightens in protest to the intrusion, but his cock is jerking on heat, the whole length of it throbbing with arousal too keen for him to deny for even a heartbeat. Ronove is huge inside him, thick and heavy and pressing to an intimacy that Battler has never known from any other’s hand before, and when Battler’s chest flexes on sound it’s a moan that runs over his parted lips, heat enough to give voice to the strain of his cock at his hips.

“Ah,” Ronove says; or it’s Ronove’s voice, at least, rumbling into strange, resonant depths at Battler’s ear. “You seem to be enjoying yourself after all, Battler-sama.” Ronove seems darker than he was, as if the light is fading around them to strip away the crisp white of his shirt, the saturated color of his cravat into spreading blackness; but then maybe it’s Battler’s vision that is giving way, chased out of his grasp by the pressure working within him, by the force of Ronove’s desire surging such overwhelming waves of sensation out into him. Battler feels his body aching, feels his shoulders cramping; and at the floor his mouth is open on heat, at his hips his cock is jerking with want for more.

Ronove is still moving, his rhythm as unforgiving as the pressure of his length insisting on Battler’s surrender with each forward thrust he takes. Battler can’t imagine how large the other has grown; the pressure is too far beyond anything he has ever before known, beyond anything he has ever imagined. Surely his body must give way, must be rent apart by the demonic force now using him for its own purposes; but he finds himself straining for consciousness, clinging to awareness as Ronove moves into him, as the heat of the other’s body running through his own pulls a knot of heat to endless tension in the depths of his belly. His balls are drawn entirely up at the base of his cock, his cock is trembling with the need for orgasm, but he hasn’t come yet, even with those waves of sensation chasing themselves through his body in too-quick succession. Battler jerks against the floor with each of Ronove’s motions, shaking with helpless force only stalled by the grip of that hold at the back of his head, and behind him there’s a laugh so deep he feels it down in the angle of his hips, as if Ronove’s voice is knotting to grip at the base of his cock.

“You have a greater appreciation for this than I expected.” There’s something wrong with Ronove’s voice, something impossibly deep under it, as if it has formed to thunder or the shape of an earthquake; or maybe it’s Battler’s ears that are ringing, that are giving the other’s words that strange force and dimensionality. “I begin to understand what the Sisters see in you.” There’s motion, the shift of something dark out of the corner of Battler’s eye, and then friction against his stomach, pressure sliding down against the fluttering tension of the orgasm building itself around the strain of Ronove’s cock pumping inside him.

“Of course satisfaction is always furniture’s top priority,” Ronove says. Amusement purrs under the words to crawl under Battler’s spine and flutter at his lashes. “And our guests should always come first.” And the pressure dips down, sliding an inch along Battler’s stomach as if to move towards his cock, and Battler’s whole body convulses, spasming into a rush of helpless pleasure without Ronove’s fingers ever touching his length. His eyes roll back in his head, his mouth comes open on a groan that seems to tear itself from the convulsing heat in his chest, and his cock twitches hard towards his stomach, spurting rush after rush of pleasure that Battler can feel seizing in his thighs, can feel clenching in his stomach as if his orgasm is draining the very core of him to spill to wet heat over the floor. Each spasm is endless, a minor infinity of pleasure that courses through the whole of his body, and then Ronove moves again, drawing back or pushing in or just shifting within Battler’s body, and another wave hits to white out his conscious thought all over again. Battler can’t stop coming, his muscles are cramping and his lungs are seizing and still those spasms of tension are jerking through him, pouring heat out over the floor until it’s puddling beneath him, until he can feel the pool of his pleasure lapping around his knees and wet at his elbows. It’s impossible, it’s unreal, this is a dream, a fantasy gone mad in the overstimulated span of his thoughts; and then the wet creeps around his collarbones, and catches sticky-hot at his lips, and with the taste of iron on his tongue comes sudden, stark epiphany.

Battler can’t move his shoulders, can’t lift his head from where Ronove is pinning him to the floor; but he casts his gaze down all the same, struggling to form clarity from the shadow that seems to be bearing down over him, that is swamping his vision as surely as pleasure is overbearing his body. The wet is spreading under him, seeping up against his cheek and soaking into his hair, and he can taste blood clearly now, as the heavy weight of crimson spreads over his tongue and slides towards the back of his throat. There is blood everywhere, a pool of it, more than Battler had thought would fit into any person in the first place, vivid and deep and spreading out under his body, spilling from his body, where the flat tension of his stomach has given way to dragging claws and gnashing teeth that he didn’t even feel for the force of the pleasure that tore through him as whatever Ronove has become tore into him. Everything is red, the floor and his skin and the parts of his body that have been ripped open and laid out over the space beneath him as if to make a show for his appreciation, another presentation for the start of a new game, and behind him there’s the rumble of a laugh, low and deep and darker than Battler has ever heard, as the shape of the demon presses in flush against his spine and heavy over his shoulders.

“I always see to my duty first,” Ronove’s voice says, forming itself around the curve of Battler’s spine, spilling into his ears as his blood spills into an endless sea on the floor beneath them. “But I do appreciate the chance to satisfy myself as well.” Heat presses to the side of Battler’s neck, something that feels like the outline of a kiss urging against him before the heat spreads to sink deep into his flesh, teeth piercing into his throat as Ronove tightens his mouth against the other’s body. Battler feels his neck give way, feels his throat tear open to gush blood into his mouth as Ronove rips into him, and when his eyes roll back on a spasm of helpless pleasure his consciousness gives way along with his vision to cast him into the temporary reprieve of death.

The most terrifying thing about it, Battler thinks, is that he never wanted Ronove to stop.


End file.
